Bad Romance
by Quaxo
Summary: AU: Dorian's Books and Curiousities has an unexpected mysterious visitor one dark and stormy night. UPDATED!
1. Chapter 1

_It was a dark and stormy night…_ Well, actually it was the sort of weather that had him quoting Bulwer-Lytton, and while overdramatic and now terribly cliché, it was a dark and stormy night.

"It's gonna rain, I can feel it," Elliot says as she begins the process of cleaning the fussy brass Italian monster that dominates a whole corner of his shop. Elliot told him it was an espresso maker, but JD had doubts. The thing grumbles and _growls_ and _**hisses**_ like a demon, steam billowing when anyone other than Elliot tried to use it. JD had made the mistake of trying to use it once, and had paid the price when ten hardbacks had suffered irreparable water damage.

"You're going to make Glenn angry if you keep glaring at him like that---," Elliot laughs, taking out her polishing rag and running it over brass fixtures lovingly. He quickly averts his eyes back out the storefront window---

---just in time to see a car slam into the jogger, rolling him up onto the hood of the car. His first thought is _oh god,_ the second is _who goes running at nine o'clock at night in this neighborhood_ and the third is _I can't believe they're actually leaving---_

The driver is young, that much he can tell through the rain, expression shocked as they stare at the man draped across the hood of the car. He knows what they're going to do a second before they do, gunning the engine. The jogger, in the process of standing as the car begins to accelerate, flies off the side of the fender and hits the pavement with a loud thud.

He can hear Elliot calling out after him, asking him what's going on, as he rushes out the door---

The man lays sprawled half on the sidewalk, half in the gutter, cursing violently.

"Are you alright," He asks, approaching the man, trying to remember his first aid training back in musical theatre camp and looking for anything obviously wrong. _If he's got a bone sticking out I think I'm going to puke…_

The man's head snaps around to glare at him, pale blue eyes burning into him.

"No, no, I'm fine, getting run down by a couple of punks is just how I planned on ending my night," The man snarls, trying to stand, only to collapse as his knee refuses to support his weight.

"C'mon, let's get into my shop and get some ice for that knee."

The man grumbles, but throws an arm around his shoulders, shifting his weight onto JD as he stands. He's warm, despite the rain, breaths coming in deep gasps of combined exertion and shock.

Elliot meets them at the door, holding it wide and helping him guide the man to one of the couches in the middle of the store.

"Oh my god! What happened!?! Are you okay!?"

"Get her _away_ from me---" the man rasps in his ear, his breath tickling the hair on JD's neck.

"Elliot? Why don't you get some ice for--- for--- uhm…," He shifts awkwardly, helping the man down onto the old plaid couch that had been in his dad's apartment before---

"Perry."

_Perry--- Welsh/English for pear tree, a nickname for Peregrine, which means "traveler"… oddly appropriate for such a night…_

"I'm JD, this is my shop…" He smiled nervously as the man's eyes roam the perilously stacked shelves critically. "Welcome to Dorian's Books and Curiosities…"

Elliot comes back and, oddly enough, _quietly_ hands him the bag of ice with a broad wink, before going back behind her counter.

_Oh god… I hope he didn't see that…_

He hands the towel full of ice to Perry, who takes it and rests it carefully on his rapidly swelling knee, with a hiss.

"Thanks."

"We should probably call the police---"

"And tell them what? Some kids that I didn't see clearly in a dark colored older vehicle that probably wasn't even _theirs_ hit me while I was crossing the street? Golly gosh I bet the excitement of it all will have all the cops fighting over the case like the last sprinkle donut in the box."

"Oohkay… is there someone I should call, then?"

"Why would you call anyone?"

"Well, you can't walk on that---"

"I'll be fi---" Perry grimaces as he twitches his battered knee, letting out a pained huff of air. "Give me the phone…please."

Perry talks quietly for a minute, and there is something is odd about his face, almost sad as he hangs up the phone.

_I wonder what that was about. Plans they'll have to break? An ex? An estranged sibling that just so happens to live in the area? Maybe they'll be forced to reconcile, maybe that car accident was a good thing---_

"You watch any TV," Perry asks, breaking the silence that JD realizes has been going on for far too long.

"No," he answers reflexively out of disgust, nose crinkling, before he can even temper his reaction.

Perry gives him a wry look, eyes sparking. Something warm begins to grow low in JD's belly as their eyes connect and he curses himself as all sorts of fool for entertaining any sort ideas about this man he doesn't even know.

"That's pretty dangerous to admit in this town," Perry drawls, eyebrow rising. The heat in his stomach rises to his cheeks, leaving his guts ice cold as he makes the connection---

"Oh god, you work in television, don't you? I'm sure---"

"If you're about to assure me that the piece of instant brain rot that I help slop out five days a week to the adoring masses is better than the rest of the crap on television, don't." JD's jaw snaps shut as Perry smirks. His cheeks and his stomach fight over the remaining blood in his body. "I'm perfectly aware that I'm the scum of the earth to most 'educated' people."

The words burst from his mouth as they always do, without control or real thought:

"---But you make people happy, that has to be worth something."

Fortunately this is the right thing to say it seems (unlike that time he saw that guy that looked _just like_ Turk from behind and shouted '_EAGLE'_, only to realize mid-pounce that it was not in fact Turk---) as something eased about Perry's posture.

"Awww, gee, thanks, now my life has meaning," Perry snipes, shifting the ice bag further down his knee.

"JD? I'm going to go for the night, see you tomorrow," Elliot calls from the doorway, giving him another wink before he has time to protest that he _doesn't even know this man and what if he's a serial killer and this is all an elaborate plot to kidnap me and lock me in his lair and do unspeakable things---_

"Did she just wink at you?"

"NO! No, she has, uhm, a nervous tic… seizures, you know. No, she was definitely not winking at me. That's absurd. No."

"Huh." Perry shivers and crosses his arms over his wet t-shirt that clung tightly to his skin---_why did you have to notice that brain?_

"Let me get you my coat, you must be freezing."

He enters the backroom just as he remembers that he didn't wear a coat today--- it'd been sunny this morning and he hadn't thought he'd need one with the forecast predicting good weather all week --- _Fooled me again weather man!_

His eyes land on the large brown windbreaker hanging on the rack --- his father's coat. It'd been overcast that day--- JD hadn't had the courage to put the coat in the goodwill bin yet, even though his father wouldn't have any use for the coat anymore---

_It's just a stupid coat, get a grip ---_ He forces the stupid tears that prickle at his eyes back down. It's so silly, getting upset over a coat of all things after all this time.

His father would have wanted him to give it away, instead of letting it linger useless on a hook as some sort of bizarre memorial to a man who wasn't going to be coming back for it.

He takes a down with a deep breath, the faintest trace of his father's cologne hanging in the air.

"Here, put this on."

Perry gives him a funny look, but takes the coat, sliding it on. It's a little short in the arms, but it zips closed easily enough and he hears the tiny sigh of relief that Perry lets out.

"Do you want some coffee? Elliot generally leaves me a pot…"

"Sure."

He steps behind Elliot's counter, pulling down two mugs from the cabinet.

"I haven't seen you jogging around here before---"

"Just needed to burn off some energy."

"Oh, do you---"

The door opens with a loud crash and JD nearly drops the coffee pot as he turns and stares at the man looming in his doorway.

"_What did you do to my friend?"_

"What?"

"Ben, stop being an ass…" Perry barks, an amused grin on his face. "JD this Ben, Ben this is JD."

Ben steps out of the shadows, revealing himself to be a tall brunette with a wide boyish grin.

"Thanks for taking care of Perry --- and making him call me, he'd probably be trying to limp the twelve blocks back to his apartment otherwise."

"No problem…" He smiles, pulling down a third coffee mug, "Do you want some coffee before you go?"

"Naw… we better get going…" Ben says, moving towards Perry. There's something about Ben's walk that seems off… it's not as energetic as he would expect out of the man…

He thinks that Perry sees it too, the way his eyes narrow as he watches Ben, how he stubbornly tries to carry most of his weight even as Ben helps him up… like Ben's more fragile than he appears.

"Well… have a better night…"

"Thanks, man," Ben smiles, helping Perry towards the door.

"Your jacket----" Perry forces Ben to pause at the door, looking back at JD over his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it," JD hears himself saying _maybe he'll come back to return it, and maybe we'll--- we'll what, huh? You don't even know if he's gay or not and here you are writing another fantasy that's just going to disappoint you in the end…_

He locks the door behind them, watching as Ben helps Perry into the car; sees the way that Ben's arm wraps around Perry's waist, his gut sinking in response.

His cell phone rings and he knows without looking who it is---

"Hi, Elliot."

"Sooooo… how'd it go? Did you get his number?"

Perry's saying something, his face concerned, just before he slides into the passenger seat that has Ben rolling his eyes.

"No, I think he has someone already, they came and picked him up…"

***///***///***


	2. Chapter 2

"You shouldn't have come…," Perry grumbles again as he buckles himself in. "Why didn't you send your sister?"

"Which one," Ben snorts, starting up the car and pulling away from the curb. "Jordan would just finish the other driver's job, and if I sent Danni, we'd find you a few days from now dead locked in the back of her car because she forgot you were in there."

"You should be at home resting."

"Perry, I'm not an invalid--- although you might be from the looks of that knee. I'm taking you to the hospital."

He stares at his knee, swollen to the size of a cantaloupe. It feels hot and he's distantly aware of the pain--- He pokes it and hisses at the sting.

"It's not that bad."

"Man, I do not want to know what you'd consider 'bad' then… we're going to the hospital."

He sighs --- Ben could be just as stubborn as Jordan when he wanted to be.

"Fine, maybe while you're there you can go get---"

"I'm not going to get a blood test, Perry. I'm fine, they cured me remember? You threw me a barbeque…"

Perry remembers the barbeque, remembers the relief that they'd all felt when Ben had said that the doctors had cleared him. He and Jordan had remained civil to each other for a record four hours (well, four and a half hours if you counted the little slip up after the barbeque, the two of them too delirious with happiness to remember why they shouldn't…) as they'd celebrated with all of the Sullivan family, Ben's friends and coworkers. He'd made the hamburgers himself.

"Stop worrying so much."

Cancer came back though, Perry might have been rejected from the pre-med program, but he remembered enough of his biology classes--- He saw Ben's skin growing pale again, the growing fatigue, had been trying for months to get Ben to go back to the doctor…

"Fine," He sighs, giving up again. Perhaps he's wrong, he's being neurotic just as Ben accuses, but…

He'd feel a whole hell of a lot better if Ben got that blood test though.

***///***///***

His knee is definitely screwed he realizes when they put him into a wheelchair and tell someone to wheel him over to radiology. He has to choke down a scream when the nurse/intern/whatever plows the side with his injured leg straight into a door jamb. The pain starts to cut through the shock and he's finally feeling what happened.

He feels a little dizzy and nauseous as the burning throbbing pain in his knee increases tempo. He chokes out how he injured himself three or four times to the medical assistant, the nurse, the radiologist, the surgeon and then eventually to the cops who look sympathetic but everyone in the room knows that they aren't going to catch the little punks which is why he didn't want to bother filing a report in the first place – _damn it __**hurts**_ _where's the fucking pain meds?_

The trip through the MRI machine is irritating and painful as he's forced to hold his aching knee in an awkward position and somehow managing to stay perfectly still. He nearly shouts as they drop back into his wheelchair roughly and leave him in the waiting room with ancient women's magazines and _Fox News_ playing softly in the background. The volume is just loud enough to be irritating but not loud enough to be understood.

Eventually he's wheeled back into a patient room where a grouchy looking surgeon shows him where his ACL, as well as PCL and MCL have been torn – the low impact of the car hit him in just the right place to ensure the most amount of damage.

Then they discuss with him whether or not he wishes to engage in "high risk activities" like jumping or pivoting ever again.

He may be in his forties, but he's not ready for a walker just yet.

They check him in (a long agonizing process that does not involve painkillers when it clearly should) and get him situated in a bed where they finally, finally give him something to kill the pain – unfortunately it's just some extra strength ibuprofen, but it's better than nothing.

Leaning back into the bed he feels weariness start to creep in –

He's asleep before he even realizes he's closed his eyes.

***///***///***

"Man, how can you _watch_ this –" Ben sighs staring at the television.

Perry holds his hand up to indicate silence as Misty tells Jarod that she slept with Michelle while he was separating their conjoined twin daughters in a massive twenty hour surgery –

"You still think _Candid Camera_ is funny, you are in no position to judge my television viewing habits," Perry says once the commercials start

"I told Jordan about your little adventure – I managed to get you month off to recover."

"Christ, you didn't sleep with her did you?"

"Dude, she's my _sister_."

"She's a bitch and if I were on my death bed she'd expect me to show up to work."

Ben chortles at that, nodding and Perry feels a warm flush fill his stomach. He takes a large drink of ice water (the only thing he's allowed since he's pre-op) to try and kill it.

"Let's just say I have some embarrassing photos that she'd rather not let anyone see."

"You've been holding out on me, you bastard?"

"Just photos of her at CATS the musical."

"So?"

"In costume."

"Son of a bitch, what else are you holding out on me?"

"Hey, someone's got to get you to take a vacation."

"I don't need a vacation –"

"Perry, why were you running that late at night in the first place–"

He's saved from trying to come up with a bullshit reply when his show comes back on – by the time the next commercial break comes Ben's mind will be on something else.

"Mr. Cox, I need to take your vitals now," A pretty young nurse says, coming into the room. "And no more ice before surgery."

He nods absently, eyes glued to the television and hoping she'll just be quiet and leave him alone.

He grits his teeth when she and Ben start talking when it is clearly _not_ commercial time.

"Your friend really likes his soaps, huh," She titters as she takes his pulse.

"Naw, he just writes for this one."

"Oh. My. _**GOD.**___You write for _Nights of Our Lives_," The woman squeals and he snarls giving up and shutting off the television. He's never going to be able to focus with all the talking. "I _**love**_ your show! Oh my god, just wait until the rest of the girls find out!"

Now his cover is blown and he turns to glare at Ben, who just winks at him – he looks to the nurse, ready to disabuse her of any notion of fangirling around him, _**or **_getting spoilers –

She looks like a puppy about to piss herself out of excitement. He should be mad right now – but he's a little bit flattered too, and it never does to piss off the nurses.

"Look –" A glance at the ID badge hanging from her neck gives him a name, " – Tina… gosh you've got the prettiest brown eyes, so warm –" He coughs slightly, smirking as Tina blushes and beams under his attentions. "I would _really_ appreciate it if you didn't let word get around about me."

"Absolutely, no problem…," She nods, blushing brighter. "Your secret is safe with me."

"You still got it, man," Ben says as Tina heads out. "Although I don't think it's going to do you any good."

"No," he sighs.

"I think this vacation is going to be a good time to get you back in the game, hit a few of the hot bars –"

"Yeah, because the ladies love a guy in a knee brace," He snorts, wishing that ibuprofen could numb psychological pangs .

"We'll tell them you hurt it saving a kid from getting mowed over by a car."

He laughs at that, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Ben, who's grinning like a loon – hating himself for burning image in his memory.

***///***///***

"_Stepping out of the car he spotted his mentor, who appeared to be in a deep conversation with a tree, back turned to the gathering funeral party. He'd never seen the man in a suit before, and he took a moment to take in the sight of how the well-tailored clothes hung on a man who seemed to live in t-shirts, scrubs bottoms and sneakers. _

"_Dr. Peters?"_

"_Newbie! There you are, glad you could make it! Guess I won't have to bail out the clown after all---"_

_Peters threw an arm around his shoulders, his embrace surprisingly friendly, what he'd wanted for years. Jesse's unable to savor the moment however, eyes focused on the feverish eyes and the stubble adorning the man's cheeks._

"_Dr. Peters--- where do you think we are?"_

_The man froze, grip tightening around him—_

"_Oh…. OH…" A shuddery intake of breath as his mentor pulled him into a tight embrace--- "Oh god, Ben…"_

…and that's all, for right now," JD takes a deep swallow of water, heading back to his seat as the rest of class politely applauds.

"Any critique for Mr. Dorian? Anyone? Of course not," Dr. Kelso sneers, coming out from behind his desk. "How do _any_ of you expect to grow as artists if you can't be honest with one another? Your generation… all of you pampered and told you're all so _special_ and _talented_… well here comes the truth train, sweethearts."

JD gulps loudly as Dr. Kelso's eyes focus in on him and he sinks down into his seat…

"Mr. Dorian that was the most _cliché_ piece of drivel I've been forced to listen to in my many years as a professor of the English language. It was bad even by your abysmal over-wrought standards. The entire back story that you've built up for Dr. Peters is contradicted in two sentences, completely destroying the one interesting character in your whole manuscript. You might as well be one of those hack writers on those soaps that my wife loves so much. It almost makes me think that you're trying to compensate for the pathetic state of your own lonely life. Do us all a favor, Mr. Dorian, and give up this silly fantasy of becoming a writer. Class dismissed."

He can feel the hot tears burning beneath his eyelids as he stands and packs up his things. He won't cry here, he refuses to give Kelso the satisfaction. He'd known before he even signed up for this class that Kelso had a tendency to take out his own frustrations as an _unpublished_ author on his students.

_Those who can do, do; those who can't, teach… Guess I should make everyone call me Professor Dorian…_

"Dude, tough break?" Turk says, coming out from the ethics class across the hall, slipping into step with him. For such a guy's guy, Turk was surprisingly astute at reading his face… if only he weren't incurably straight they'd be perfect for one another.

"Yeah, well, that's Kelso for you…" He sighs. "It was crap anyways… The shop's been eating all of my time, and---"

"I thought it was good… Kelso's just a jerk who hates anyone who's got talent."

"Thanks, man. Gotta learn to take it though, right, to make it in this business? You wanna get some pancakes?"

"You know I can't pass up brinner, man! I have to tell you about this _fine_ girl I met the other day: _Carla…_"

They went to their favorite local diner, but Kelso's rant seemed to have blistered his taste buds as well as his ego.

All his life he's had these fantasies crashing through his head like the Mississippi river --- growing up in a bookstore it only seemed natural to commit them to paper. He'd always thought it was a calling…

He shouldn't let Kelso get to him, how many authors had been rejected and rejected and rejected only to be hailed as the voice of their generation?

If only his father hadn't died --- he could be back in a real graduate school full time instead of half-assing it at the local college… He could be having a life instead of running around frantically trying to maintain his father's shop and cram in school whenever he could.

He'd sell the shop if the very idea didn't leave the taste of ashes in his mouth.

If only he weren't so _stuck_…


	3. Chapter 3

Here's how the story _really_ goes: Jessica always knew that Noah was a little off; always thought that he could be bisexual, even though he'd never ever admit it. It's not why she cheated on him, no she did that out of sheer boredom with their seemingly perfect life, even though he was hardly ever there, so wrapped up in his job at the hospital.

In the depths of his bewildered grief in the aftermath of their divorce Noah comes to several conclusions: first that he should've tried to be a better husband. Second, that next time he's going to try harder, if there is a next time. The third is possibly the hardest to admit: that his ex-brother-in-law's unexpected comfort has triggered a whole rush of feelings that have him questioning everything.

He can't be _gay_ he tells himself over and over, trying to prove it to himself in what seems like every bar skank within a six block radius of his apartment. After getting treatment for a nasty case of gonorrhea, he ---_Noah_ finally accepts that he could quite possibly be bisexual.

Which does nothing for his---_Noah's_ feelings for Jerry. They can't be together, even if Jerry did swing his way… It's wrong for them to be together after his marriage to Jessica --- so terribly Jerry Springer.

So Noah will smother the feelings and try to enjoy his time with Jerry while he can. And maybe, one day –

It'll never happen though because the producers would flip their shit if one of the characters was gay, not to mention all those housewives who watch the show and just want to take poor cuckolded Noah home and coddle him…

Another thing to file under '_Not gonna happen'…_

***///***///***

When he finally comes to he can tell it's late at night – up and about in a few hours his _ass_ – Too late for visiting hours which explains why Ben is gone.

He groans softly as what feels like the world's worst hangover slams into him – he's freezing, a migraine is drilling into his skull, and his stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. He turns onto his side, curling up into a ball as he tries to force his insides to resume their normal positions.

The acid crawls up higher and higher in his throat, and he can taste it in his mouth – burning and sour on his tongue. He _hates_ throwing up – not that anyone _likes_ to except bulimics – but god he's not going to be so weak –

"Let it out, tough guy," A woman's voice says soothingly, thrusting a basin underneath his chin. "I'm not going to tell anyone."

His stomach gives a violent lurch and he gives in – spitting up into the bowl with a soft groan. The chills intensify, but at least it takes the edge off his headache.

He moans, falling back into the bed as his stomach finally retreats.

"You had an allergic reaction to the sedative they gave you – the doctor told you earlier, but you probably don't remember that –"

Christ he must have really been out of it, because this has to be the first time he's woken up –

"Don't worry, let Carla take care of you," The woman says, placing a cold compress on his forehead –

She has to be an angel, it feels so good.

***///***///***

When he wakes up again, he still feels shaky and slightly nauseous, but so much better than he did earlier.

It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Ben is sitting in the chair by the bed smiling at him.

"How are you feeling, buddy," Ben asks softly, leaning forward, reaching towards him. "I brought you something."

His stomach flutters with anticipation – which riles his underlying nausea, but he determinedly chokes it back down to where it belongs.

He's surprised when Ben drops a toy truck in his hand.

He's not quite sure what to say.

"C'mon you never got a present before?"

"Never one that I didn't need an antibiotic for afterwards."

This is Ben and Jordan's thing – the giving of toy trucks when you're sick – maybe it's just a Sullivan thing. It doesn't _mean_ anything other than he's still 'part of the family' even if he is legally separated from them.

"Look if I knew you were going to get all sensitive about it, I would've brought a box of Kleenex for you too—" Ben smiles and stands.

"See you later," Ben smirks as he leans down over him, his face growing closer, lips slightly parted.

This used to be their game – it used to drive Jordan up the wall – except his heart didn't thunder in his chest back then.

He turns his head to the side at the last second and shoves Ben away.

"I'm king of gay chicken," Ben crows, fists in the air. "Seriously though, I got to go – I got to go check on my carpenters, but I'll be back later."

"Get outta here," He grumbles – glad that he's too tired to have much of a physical reaction. _Christ this is a mess…_

"Love you," Ben calls from the doorway, blowing him a kiss.

He flips Ben off and laughs to himself after Ben is gone– only to regret it instantly as he starts to cough wetly unable to stop or catch his breath.

Three nurses storm the room and start hovering over him – they're all talking at once asking if he's okay and demanding that he '_just breathe_' and three hands reach out to push him back into the bed and another shoves something over his face (which is stupid because he can't _breathe_) – they're all around him and he _can't breathe_ – his head feels light and tingly and the breath just won't enter his lungs –

"Honestly," A vaguely familiar voice clucks, "You're just as bad as those idiot nurses he writes. Get out of here!"

There's some grumbling but the nurses finally back off of him, and the air _finally_ hits his lungs…

The woman has a sweet face with long curly hair and full dark lips. She glares at the women who shuffle off reluctantly.

"I'll have you know that most nurses aren't love struck idiots – even those three," She clucks as she takes his pulse.

"You do realize that it is just a TV show."

"Nurses aren't some silly piece of eye candy there too coo adoringly at the doctor or bed pan scrubbers—"

"That's what the nurse assistants are for?"

She snorts at that, swatting his arm lightly, but her eyes are definitely amused.

"Where was the doctor last night while you were puking your guts out," She asks, eyebrow cocked at him in challenge.

Well, he'll have to give her that.

He's about to reply when a nervous looking doctor enters the room, trailed by five people in khakis, button downs and ties or blouses who are all staring at him as if he were some fascinating creature on display and making notes on their clipboards.

"Mr. Cox came in here yesterday for knee surgery – while under anesthesia he suffered an allergic reaction and aspirated into his lungs. What are the risks associated with lung aspiration?"

"Pnuemonia – possible inhalation of gastric acid into the lungs causing ulceration, possible abscess in the lungs—" the redhead pipes up.

Nervous Doc looks surprised – and not in the good 'you're such a great student' sort of way, more in the 'I didn't know that' way. What kind of shithole has Ben dumped him in?

"F-fortunately, Mr. Cox," Nervous Doc says, finally addressing him. "It appears that your allergic reaction is fading – and the amount of fluid in your lungs was not as much as it appeared. You'll be out of here tomorrow," the man says proudly, and he gets the eerie feeling that his survival is something of an accomplishment for Nervous Doc.

Then he leads the group of interns out on to torment the next patient in his unfortunate clutches.

He rummages around the bed, finally using an ancient magazine and a blue pen he's stolen from the top of his chart. It's going to be a bitch to try and decipher later, maybe he should have Ben bring him a notebook –

Dr. Noah Jefferson would know _exactly_ how to handle Nervous Doc.

***///***///***

He stares at the sales ledger, then at the stack of bills, then at the ledger again, and sighs. Dorian and Sons had never made a huge profit, but when his father ran it, the shop had at least run in the black. Since his death, however…

He'd hoped letting Elliot set up a coffee shop inside would have brought in some more traffic, but it wasn't enough… He had a month, maybe two left before he'd be forced to close the door.

He turns to his notebook, staring at the scratched out sentences scribbled all over the paper with exasperation. Ever since Kelso's… _review _of his piece last week, he hasn't been able to commit to a single line of his piece. He's got a thousand words due tomorrow and he hasn't got anything to present. Kelso really will have his ass then.

He wants to call in sick tomorrow – on life.

Hopefully it's going to be a quiet day, and for the first time he's wishing for no customers so he can bust _something_ out paper –

As if summoned by his gloomy thoughts the bell over the door rings out –

"I told you we should've brought the wheelchair," The voice is familiar, as is the face – _Ben?_

"Hell no! I'm not a cripple, the crutches are bad enough---" Perry grumbles, coming around the corner to clumsily enter the shop. He's unsteady on his crutches, frustration evident as he hobbles in, constantly shifting in direction.

God, if he exists, is cruel – because Perry is just as attractive as he remembers him – more so now if that were possible.

"Back so soon? How can I help you," He smiles, coming around the counter to greet them. In the daylight they look a lot different than they did that night… was it really two weeks ago? Days just seemed to blend together with the absence of anything to break the monotony of the everyday grind.

In the sunlight they looked different… he can see now more clearly the almost unhealthy paleness of Ben's skin, and there's a… falseness to his joviality… as if he were trying to hide behind it; some sort of chronic illness then? Serious enough to fatigue a man as young as Ben…

Perry, however, looks more vibrant by the light of day. In the sunlight he can see lightly tanned skin and the faint freckles that splatter across his skin. If Perry weren't so tan, he imagines those freckles would be a bit brighter against creamy skin, like dots of cookie in cookies and cream ice cream.

…_And I should really stop fantasizing about him right now—_

Perry and Ben are looking at him expectantly, and he's missed a big part of the conversation, or ---

"Don't mind him, he does that occasionally," Elliot calls from behind Glenn.

He feels his cheeks go red and he wishes an avalanche of books would sweep over him and bury him alive.

"If you need anything, just holler ---" He manages to get out before ducking into the back store room.

He needs to get this ridiculous fantasy out of his head. God, Kelso was right… he's _addicted_ to stupid clichés; like meeting the man of your dreams by chance, or falling in love at first sight. It wasn't _real_…

He takes a deep breath, steadying his nerves and resolving to be cool… calm… professional. He takes a deep breath, releases it and heads back out onto the shop floor –

His eyes immediately catch Ben and Perry perusing the aisles together, their shoulders brushing against one another as they make their way through the books. There's an intimacy between them that's hard for him to classify, but makes jealousy squirm in his belly.

Ben reaches out and catches Perry as he stumbles towards the bookshelf. A light blush grows on Perry's cheeks as he straightens himself out.

He takes another deep breath, and chooses instead to look at them more objectively, as strangers, as characters for his new novel. He'll go crazy otherwise. He notes, between glances at his ledger which still refuse to become profitable no matter how he manipulated the numbers, how Perry freezes at Ben's touch for the slightest moment, as if he were torn between multitudes of reactions.

Sometimes, he catches Ben looking at Perry out of the corner of his eye, expression puzzled.

He sees too, the easy camaraderie between the two of them; if it weren't for the other looks he'd seen he'd swear that they were friends on the level with Turk and himself. _A true guymance is almost as rare as true romance…_

They've known each other for awhile, Perry and Ben that is, sometimes they look like friends, sometimes like siblings, sometimes… sometimes there's something else there. Perhaps it's his overly fanciful imagination (_and starving libido_) that's seeing more than there is.

They're just customers ---- interesting customers for certain, but customers.

Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he'll believe it.

Eventually, after an hour and a half of torture they finally make their way to the counter. Ben's got several travel magazines, and carrying Perry's purchases (a modern science journal, a copy of the latest Sports Illustrated and an illustrated anatomy text – not what he'd expect out of a TV person).

They're halfway out the door when Perry stops and clumsily turns back.

"I forgot your jacket! Christ, you've probably been looking for it—"

"No problem – it's… it's just an old coat. Bring it in next time you're around."

"I will," Perry says firmly, flashing him a quick smile before heading out the door with Ben.

Well… at least he'll have something to write those thousand words about – this whole thing is playing out like a bad romance novel. Foolishly in love with someone who probably wouldn't love him back even if he weren't in what is obviously the romance of the century –

With a bitter taste in his mouth, he picks up his pen and starts to write.


	4. Chapter 4

He sips one of Elliot's specialty triple soy mocha lattes, stretched out on one of the couches in the middle of the shop. Turk is staring at six open textbooks and making notes for his bar exam. JD's not sure whether he should feel lucky or envious of him. As an English grad student he merely had to produce something by the due date instead of being obsessively tested and examined – however when he failed it wasn't like he could "study harder" at being a good writer, it was a hell of a lot more personal.

"I can't be chained to these books any longer," Turk says dramatically, shoving his textbooks away from him. "I hear you have a new boyfriend – I want all the details, y'know except what you do in bed, unless you keep the descriptions vague enough so I can pretend it's a girl –"

He rolls his eyes at Turk, and shoots a glare at Elliot who is seemingly fascinated with removing a smudge from one of Glenn's spigots.

Just because Perry _and Ben_ have both come in here several times over the last few weeks – and just because Perry just happens to keep _forgetting_ to bring back his father's jacket – doesn't mean anything other than Perry has a horrible memory and that he might feel he owes JD a bit of patronage after JD helped him that night.

"There's nobody – _someone_, I'm not going to say who – _Elliot_ – just watches too many soaps. She thinks I should be having gay babies with this guy who got hit by a car outside the shop a few weeks ago."

"…does he have a lawyer?"

"Turk, you're not even a lawyer yet!"

"I know, but if I came into my internship with a suit I'd be _the man_ – that Neena lady is scary." Turk's eyes go distant for a moment, tilting his head to the left – before he shudders and comes back with a blink.

_I hope I don't look that stupid when I daydream_…

"So there's _no _special somethin'-somethin' in your life?"

"Naw, the J-Dizzle can't be tied down to just _one_ person, man," He replies flashing his uber-fly gang signs. "What about you – how are things going with _Carla_?"

"She doesn't know I _exist_, man…," Turk sighs loudly. "I've seen her in the halls after classes, in the café – but she barely acknowledges when I put the moves on her – and you know I've got some _good _moves… I just don't get it. She's always saying that she's _too busy_ to have a 'relationship'."

"Maybe she's just not that _in _to you," Elliot offers, coming to join them around the coffee table.

Turk scoffs loudly, but the way his lower lip juts out as he crosses his arms over his chest afterwards has him internally cursing this 'Carla' that would hurt his Chocolate Bear so.

"That is absolutely not true, CB – and she didn't say _no_, she said 'not right now'… you just got to keep persisting, man."

"Thanks, VB—"

"So how are you and Shaun doing," He asks Elliot, who's looking rather miffed that Turk hasn't taken her advice – she's always so competitive about everything.

"He's having a great time in Australia – his study is going really well –"

The way Elliot seems to glow as she talks about Shaun has him itching to take notes, but he resists.

He's not writing about love any more.

***///***///***

"So what about her, she's hot –" Ben announces, pointing at a girl across the room.

He tackles Ben's hand down, a loud laugh bursting from his chest as he falls across the man's lap in the process. They have had waaaaay too many tonight –

"You're not supposed to point," He snickers, hauling himself up using Ben's arm as a rope ladder… He gets halfway up before giving up and leaning against Ben's shoulder – perversely enjoying the smell of Ben mixed with the bar's stale beer and cigarette smoke.

"Man you just gotta get back out there in the _game _– I mean it's be _three_ years since you and Jordan got divorced and I haven't seen you with _anybody_ in at least a year and a half."

"I'm good – I don't need a woman coming into my life and _ruining_ things," He grumbles, pushing off Ben and bolting down the rest of his scotch.

Ben's been on a mission this last week to hook him up with _someone_ – they've been out almost every night to some 'hot spot' that Ben had found – even, regrettably, some 'speed dating' event where the desperation was thick in the air and the drinks were too watered down to make up for any of their faults.

"Y'know, for a guy who writes soaps, you are the _least_ romantic person I know," Ben scoffs, ordering them two more.

"Yeah, well for a glorified construction worker _you're_ not very manly."

"That so," Ben asks coyly, smirking as he takes a sip of his beer. "Interesting accusation coming from someone who writes housewife pornography –"

"You're just jealous 'cause you've never pleased _one_ woman, let alone millions five days a week. I am a god."

Ben laughs at that, and Perry loves how his eyes crinkle.

"You know there's only way to settle this –" Ben is grinning like a loon and Perry feels his gut drop as he realizes the situation he's just set up for himself.

"No, Ben – not in public—"

"Are you wussing out of the World Championship Final Battle Royale for the Glory of the Universe game of gay chicken?"

"No – that's a re-hee-hee-diculous title for the game by the way – I just don't want to play _here_, in a bar where the women you're supposed to be hooking me up with are watching."

"Exactly what a chicken would say," Ben tuts, taking a long sip of his beer. "BawkBAAAAWWWWKKK!"

He cringes at the sound, because there's _nothing_ he hates more than being called a chicken, the sounds that people calling other people chickens made, Hugh Jackman, people who add 'izzle' to words –

Then Ben's leaning in again, and his lips puckered –

He wraps his arms tightly around Ben's neck, kissing the man as deeply as possible, hoping – hoping –

He feels Ben laughing – at first – and then Ben realizes that this isn't some cunning new finishing move he's come up with –

Ben shoves him back and Perry wishes he could die.

"Obviously, you've had too much to drink, time to get you home," Ben says in an excruciatingly cold voice that is identical to his sister's.

He wants to say and do a million things – laugh and play it all off as a joke, beg Ben to understand, cry –

He can't even muster the strength to nod as Ben bundles him into a cab and sends him off alone to his apartment.

He manages to choke down the dry-eyed heaving sobs of shame long enough to get into his apartment and lock the door.

Sometimes when you win, he reminds himself bitterly, you lose.

***///***///***

Two days later he hasn't left his apartment. He takes his phone and off the hook intermittently – depending on whether or not he's hoping or dreading that Ben will call.

How could he have been so stupid –

He'd woken up the morning after the_ incident_ not even lucky to have a hangover to distract him for a few hours over what he'd done. He's been chasing that hangover ever since –

He winces as the phone rings – cursing as he's sure he left it _off_ the hook this time – he doesn't want to talk to _Ben_ who was a goddamn fucking tease and he TOLD him not to do it – he doesn't want to talk to _anybody_.

The phone doesn't stop ringing though, and he swears it's starting to reverberate between his ears.

It takes a few swings at the receiver before he manages to grab it and turn it on –

"PERRY! DON'T YOU DARE HANG UP ON ME AGAIN—" Jordan shrieks on the other end – each word falling like a lightning bolt on his skull.

Apparently he's hung up on her – not that he remembers it, but to be fair, he's been pretty fucking plastered –

Eventually his ears catch up with his brain and he realizes that Jordan sounds _off_ – she doesn't sound like a heartless man-eating sexbot –

In fact, it sounds like she's been crying.

"Jordan, what's wrong," He manages not to slur, focusing as hard as he can on their conversation.

"Ben's funeral's tomorrow, ten o'clock at Persimmon Park – be there if you give a damn."

The dial tone drones in his ear for a long moment, not that he realizes it –

Ben died angry with him –

Christ he's a fucking _idiot._ A stupid fool no better than the moronic characters he writes.

Only Ben isn't going to come back from the dead.

What if Ben had called yesterday – they could've –

He's such a fucking screw up.

***///***///***

The bookstore is circling the drain – writing alternates between being a chore and torture –

The walk to Kelso's classroom is like a walk to the execution chamber –

_No_ – the walk to Kelso's classroom is disagreeable. He does not wish to be Kelso's 'example' again –

He's a bit surprised when he notices the queue outside the classroom door –

Pushing his way to the front, he finds a note taped to the door.

_Creative Writing 426_

_Dr. Kelso will regrettably unable to continue teaching this course due to an emergency with his family. In his stead an alumni has agreed to step in and complete the course. Mr. P. Cox graduated from this university in 1984, and has gone on to a successful career as a writer. _

_Due to Mr. Cox's busy schedule, this course has been moved to an online format. The class will be receiving emails shortly to arrange the mailing list and Mr. Cox's course revisions._

_Please join us in welcoming Mr. Cox to our fine establishment._

"Five bucks says he's a 'sports writer'," Laverne, one of his classmates who, like he used to, has an appreciation for the art of romance, mutters.

He feels himself smiling grimly – just when he thinks it can't get worse – this jack ass who probably is too ashamed of his writing credits to actually name them –

This class just became a waste of time – that he's paid for.

Damn it.


	5. Chapter 5

He didn't go to Ben's funeral service – and he's glad because attending his best friend's burial was difficult enough without being forced to listen to a man in a dress drone on about ashes, dust and this is the time for mourning but 'he's with God now'.

That, and he's never really been popular with the Sullivan family and dealing with cold glares that'd make Jack Frost shiver two hours – while they all question his right to even be there – like he'd divorced Ben along with Jordan.

He's standing under of one of clichéd willow trees as the burial rites are read, squinting against the sun burning holes in his eyes despite his sunglasses. He's forcefully willing the bile to stay in his stomach, wincing whenever his control slips and a splash of stale alcohol splashes against the back of his throat.

He's too far back to really hear what's going on, until he hears the familiar creak of pulleys as they lower his best friend – someone he'd bothered to _care_ about – someone whose friendship he'd foolishly destroyed because he'd be idiotic enough to '_fall in love_' with the man – into the ground.

Hidden underneath the shade of a tree he decides to wait until the rest of the Sullivan family has left before he pays his respects – wouldn't want Mrs. Sullivan renewing that restraining order against him after all.

Except the Sullivans love to hear themselves talk, so they hang around afterwards and chat to one another. Not that he begrudges them the grieving process – it's just getting in the way of his, and the longer he stays here the more chance he's going to be discovered.

Worse case he gets discovered by Jordan and she either starts a screaming fight or them doing another ill-fated turn of horizontal tango.

"Ben was so brave," He hears someone utter. He turns to face them sharply, even as his head pounds at him in retribution.

He spots Jason, one of Ben and Jordan's distant cousins and dimly remembers him as something of a self-important blowhard – but that could describe pretty much any Sullivan male – except Ben. Ben was always the exception…

Jason has an arm thrown around Danni's shoulders in a slightly more than friendly/comforting way – while Danni seems focused on standing perfectly still and shielding the sun from her sunglasses. His eyes throb in sympathy with hers as he feels fortunate to be able hide out in the shadows.

"…yeah," Danni asks hoarsely, readjusting her sunglasses.

"I mean, imagine if he'd announced that he was sick again – it would've killed Aunt Cathy – and been so hard on you guys – really, it's better that he kept the cancer to himself—"

White flashes in front his eyes and he can hear his teeth cracking as he clenches them tightly –

He makes his way quickly to his car, anxious to get away from everything Sullivan –

Ben _knew_ – Ben knew he was dying, that the cancer was back and he hadn't told _anyone_ –

The son of a bitch.

It wasn't 'brave' that Ben kept the fact he was _dying _from everyone – it was selfish. Selfish to deny his friends and family a chance to say goodbye to him –

Had he thought it would be easier for them, that they would just find out one day that he'd died? Did he think it'd be just like he'd been in a car accident?

He probably had, the stupid bastard.

If he'd known – if he'd known that Ben was dying – he would have –

He has no idea what he would have done –

The writer in him insists that he would have kissed Ben sooner – that they would've _talked_ about what was happening with both of them –

He's going to have to stop off at the liquor store – no way he has enough scotch at home to drown the soppy bastard inside of him.

Jordan's gone, so his request for another couple days of bereavement because of Ben's death goes through without a hitch –

He barely makes it into work sober three days later –

While he's never particularly _loved_ what he was writing, he did obtain some sort of amusement from it – and pride because people enjoyed how he turned the same old tropes into something shiny and new –

Hell, he even had a sort of fondness for Dr. Jefferson – who cared about his patients, in his own way – who was devoted to making sure every patient got the best care possible, no matter their financial status – who did the right thing, no matter what.

It's not enough anymore. He's bored out of his skull at work, throwing out lame ass ideas that everyone else seems to be eating up like it's manna from heaven – maybe they're just so used to him being brilliant by now that they've just stopped paying attention to what he says and just agree reflexively – which only makes his frustration worse.

When he gets the call from Winston University asking him to fill in for old crotchety pants Kelso he accepts because it's not like he's got a lot going on in his social life now that Ben has cashed in his chips. Kelso has somehow convinced someone to let him write a travel guide to the Southeastern Asia – if the rumors he remembers from school are still true it's not an appreciation of culture that has Kelso so eager to go.

Maybe working with some aspiring writers will make him remember why he wanted to get to write in the first place – worst case scenario he discourages some crappy writers from inflicting their work on the world.

Speaking of which, he'd better get that curriculum notice sent out to his 'students'.

*****///***///*****

"I can't believe this guy," JD grumbles at the computer screen.

"Your new professor finally email you," Elliot asks, poking her head out of the cookbook section.

"We've only got one assignment for the rest of the semester – write whatever we want in a journal until finals week. He's expecting a minimum of one hundred pages – but get this, it doesn't even have to be on the same story. Just one hundred pages of _something_. Oh and a 'mystery' assignment, that will teach us what it's like to be a 'real' writer," He scoffs. "Like he even knows…"

"Sounds like an easy 'A' to me…," Elliot offers, dropping down onto one of the couches and flipping through a book on German delicacies…

"I guess," He grumbles, taking a bite of his sandwich.

A glance at the calendar tells him it's Tuesday again – making it the second that Ben and Perry have missed.

Maybe Ben asked Perry to join him on some wild tour of the world and Perry agreed --- an Ernest Hemingway world tour to Idaho, Chicago, Toronto, Paris, Spain, Mt. Kilimanjaro, Key West, maybe even Havana if they were daring.

They probably just found a better coffee-slash-bookshop to give their patronage and he should stop obsessing about two complete strangers.

A glance to his left reveals the mounting stack of bills that just keep coming in. He's put a hold on all his orders, cuts prices, Elliot even chips in with 'Sweet Deal Saturdays' where all drinks were half off…and he still wonders how he's going to keep this place open another month.

Everything he does just staunches the wound for a little bit, but he's still bleeding fast –

Sometimes he fantasizes about burning the place down and being done with it.

Except that he keeps seeing his father's face out of the corner of his eyes, and he like a terrible thing for even thinking it.

Maybe he should just drop out and focus all his energy into the shop… sons are supposed to follow their father's trade – even if his father wasn't Jewish, he was, and to him it counted.

Even if his father would have wanted him to be happy – He's not going to ever be happy if he runs the family bookstore into the ground. That's the sort of shame that doesn't go away.

A glance at the clock tells him it's noon – which means break time –

He stands and stretches, not bother to hold back a yawn as he heads to the door to lock it…

His hand is on the lock when a new customer comes to the door. He's tempted to tell her to come back later, or better still lock the door and walk away… he's got a sandwich with his name on it, afterall…

Still… wasn't like he had much to do today …

And the woman has look of someone who doesn't take no for an answer – at least not without a scene.

He barely starts in on his usual spiel of "Dorian's Books and Curiosities, let us help you find that hidden treasure---," when the woman interrupts him.

"Are you John Dorian," she asks in a cold, bored voice, dark eyes like blackened toast boring into him. Her face is hard set and smooth --- she's either genetically blessed or she's keeping a very good plastic surgeon's wallet very full.

"Y-yes…," He wonders if she's with a collection agency – most of his distributors have been pretty understanding, or at least he'd thought so, that the economy _sucked_ for everyone…

"And you own this building?"

"Yes—" Okay, maybe she was a real estate agent instead, there were always a few sniffing around the building, anxious to turn it into some gentrified refurbished apartments, if they didn't just want to tear the old brownstone down and turn it into townhomes. "I'm not interested in selling it though."

She snorts quietly, eyes dancing around the room, undoubtedly picking out the water stained ceiling tiles.

"As if any --- look, a mutual friend of ours, actually a couple mutual friends," Her voice falters, just barely, and he wonders what that means for a second. "They think you're store is the perfect place for an on location shoot site for _Nights of Our Life_…"

"…"

"Do you _own_ a tele --- never mind, don't answer that. We want to pay you money to shoot a television series two nights a week in your shop. We've got a storyline coming up, and according to a…friend, this place is perfect. He insisted. " She glances about the place as if she's not entirely convinced she's seeing the same thing as the mysterious friend. "Four hundred a night," She announces, eyes narrowing in challenge.

He's going to tell her 'no', even though he needs the money, even though she looks like she's willing to break him in two to get him to say 'yes', because it feels a little like selling out. Even if it is flattering that they think the shop would be perfect… Who knew what they'd be doing in here anyway--- probably having some adulterous sex in the stacks---

"He'll do it, with conditions," Elliot announces, pushing him aside to square off with the woman, who's already got her back up in preparation for a fight. "One: It's a thousand a night, and you guys pay the difference in utilities. Two: The place has to remain named Dorian's Books and Curiosities. Three: We get special thanks at the beginning of each episode."

"Who do you think you _are_ stringbean?" the woman snarls. "Six hundred, we get to drop the 'Curiosities', and the special thanks goes in the end credits."

"Nine hundred, 'Curiosities' stays, and the address gets published at the beginning of the end credits, before they start zooming by," Elliot snaps back, "And I'm his friend… and your caterer for the shoot here."

"Oh you're going to need to give more than that if 'Curiosities' stays."

"You're getting us cheap and you know it. Eight-ninety a night, final offer."

"For that much I might as well build the damn thing on a soundstage and be done with it! You're being absurd, six hundred---"

He's never seen Elliot be so fierce, nor did he anticipate how the glow of battle lust on her cheeks could make her seem so attractive – even to him. They're like two Amazonian warriors in the midst of battle over territory, all teeth and snarls and passion, chests heaving, feathers entwined in their hair and crude war paint smeared on their cheeks as they clutch their spears, ready to go in for the kill –

"Done."

"Done. I'll have the lawyers draw it up and send it over tomorrow," Jordan turns sharply and sashays for the door. "Oh and DJ? Do try to tidy this little place up before we come, will you? At least make it look like it's worth what we're paying you."

Then she's gone, just as abruptly as she came into his life.

"What just happened," he asks numbly as he tries to put the pieces together in head.

"We just got sent a life line – They're paying us $850 a night to rent out the shop to shoot scenes for their show _and_ I get to do all the catering!"

"We're on a TV show?"

"Only '_Nights of Our Lives_' –" She blinks at his obviously blank expression and gives him a pitying look, "JD, you really _really_ got to get a TV… _Nights of Our Lives_ is one of the most popular shows – they say it's completely revitalized the soap opera… This could be big for you – for _us_. People will come here if they see us on the show."

"Really?"

"Trust me," She says confidently, her fingers brushing his as she hands him his favorite drink.

God, she hopes this works.


	6. Chapter 6

Working her own coffee shop is not what she wants to do for the rest of her life – as soon as the right opportunity comes along she'll be long gone – Now if she only _knew_ what she wanted to do with her life, that'd be perfect.

She hadn't thought this through at _all_…

The day she graduated from college (_magna cum laude in Honors Biochemistry_) she'd rejoined her family in the parking lot – there were no congratulations – just questions that weren't really questions about what medical school she was going to attend (_Yale, of course, Reids always went to Yale_), what she was going to specialize (_OB/GYN, of course_). All these questions being answered for her, flying over her head –

After twenty-one years, she just can't take it _anymore_. Not one of them has given her a pat on the back for pulling off something _fricking amazeballs_ like graduating _Biochem with__** honors**_ while still maintaining her GPA to graduate _**magna cum laude**_.

"I'm not _going_!" She shrieks finally, pulling off her graduation cap. "I am twenty-one _fricking_ years old and I _don't_ want to go to Yale; I don't want to go to _medical school_; I don't _**want to be a fricking **__**doctor!**_"

She gasps for air, staring at all the startled, silent faces staring at her.

"There's no need for strong language," Her mother says sourly after a long heavy moment.

Her father is reaching for his wallet, and she can feel another eruption of rage boiling just beneath her skin, ready to burst forth and scorch the earth around her.

"Now, sweetheart," Her father says in his condescending, long-suffering tone, pulling a crisp twenty dollar bill out of his wallet –

"You can't _bribe_ me out of the way I feel, Dad! You throw money at the hint of an emotion, Barry's so deep in the closet it's not even funny, and Mom sleeps with _everyone – _No wonder our family is so _**fucked—**_"

She stops, childishly clapping her hand over her mouth as she realizes she's just uttered the big 'F' word – _Oh god_…

A slow clap echoes around them and her eyes are drawn to Pepaw Whitmore – her maternal grandfather. She hasn't spent much time with Pepaw Whitmore, not since she was very young and mother had a falling out with him over _something_ –

"Atta girl, knew at least one of you wouldn't wind up completely ruined by the Reid half of your blood," Pepaw Whitmore says proudly, embracing her firmly, the smell of cigar smoke filling her nose as she leans into it.

"_Daddy_," Mother hisses, looking as pissed as she can after her most recent face lift. "You promised you'd _behave_—"

"I promised nothing of the sort," Pepaw Whitmore snaps, before turning her to face him. "Now, Elliot, you've got a choice. You can do what your father wants, go to medical school and become a doctor and be dissatisfied with yourself for the rest of your life –Or, you can stay with me this summer, piss your parents off, and I'll give you $100,000 to do whatever makes you happy."

The summer by the seaside was wonderful, and for the first time in years she felt _normal_. Her parents haven't talked with her since graduation, but she doesn't really miss them.

She loves the beach, but in the northeast they're only good for a few months – which is why she decides that California is simply the place for her – beaches are open all year round and it's across the _frickin_ country from her family.

She'd been careful with her money, renting out a nice, but small apartment in a good part of town with a view of the ocean –

She still had no clue what to do with her life, and no friends here in LA either – and the ocean was too cold to go swimming in apparently, and everything _cost_ so much that she'd burn through Pepaw's money if she weren't incredibly careful and then she'd have to go back home and have to take the mantle of 'screw up' from Brian who had the audacity to go to _University of Connecticut_.

Some nights she wished she'd just done what her parents wanted and become a doctor. She may not have _loved_ it, but it would be a good steady income, and she wouldn't have to worry about the meaning of life and making ends meet and finding friends –

After a long teary call to Pepaw he tells her she doesn't have to have the answers to her life _right now_ – and that she should just find an entry level job involving something she likes.

It's so stupid how revolutionary this idea is to her.

When a 'help wanted' sign goes up in the chain café a block over from her apartment she applies immediately.

She becomes the frickin' _mistress_ of the espresso machine – enough so that she starts having regular customers ask her _specifically_ to make their drinks. For a week she'd even had one of own her drink creations on the specials board –

Life was going her way, for once.

Then the coffee shop had gone to automated espresso machines that spewed out crap at the push of a button, and her new neighbors were noisy and had cats _and_ kids, and she _still_ didn't_ really_ have any friends, and she was going to have to go back home a _frickin' failure_ and be a crazy cat lady even though she hated cats because not a single guy had hit on her –

So she'd decided to open her own coffee shack – it seemed smart to find some other small shop like a book store, an art gallery to put it in – if she assisted with the cost of the renovation, sublet her small space – they'd have increased foot traffic and she'd have a place that she didn't need to completely maintain and pay for by herself.

She must have visited every little boutique shop and bookstore in the town – and they'd all told her 'no'. Then she'd come across the slightly sad and neglected but rustically charming – the sort of place that stories about plucky young women that are making new starts head to.

Then she'd met JD – sweet, nerdy JD – and after a firm explanation that she could help him bring in foot traffic and she could help him cover the lease on the place and he would only have to give up an eentsy teensy amount of space – she was in.

She'd come the week after his father died, she found out later – and she feels a little bad about how pushy she was with him – but she _needed_ to start her business, and well, he needed company. He'd looked so sad those first weeks (_not that he shouldn't be __**sad**__ about his father dying_) and there wasn't a whole lot of traffic in the place.

Really, it was just like out of a movie – she's the independent young heroine, wrapped up in starting her own business (_hassling with contractors and state officials, eagerly awaiting the arrival of her espresso maker straight from Italy_) with no time for love yet finds herself unwillingly attracted to her troubled handsome landlord and business partner.

JD was kind, funny, interesting, very metrosexual (_maybe a little too effeminate, that's she's seen, but definitely enough to keep himself very well groomed_), smart, a writer, a bit weird and daydreamy, and he knew the best hair tips – the perfect guy really.

They would go out on a date, fall in love, have a falling out, and then reconcile and have wild and crazy sex in the shop after he proposes passionately to her on one knee while _Have You Ever Really Loved Woman_ played and she was wearing a blue dress that perfectly set off her eyes –

Just her luck he was gayer than her brother Barry. Fortunately she hadn't embarrassed herself too much when she finally asked him out – and he'd been so nice about letting her down easy that there'd hardly been any awkwardness between them.

Having a friend in this town was so much more important than any old boyfriend anyway. Besides, she had the coffee bar to plan – there was a drink menu to create, coffees to taste test, figuring out how to assemble and use Glenn her espresso machine (which apparently was made in _Scotland_ and sold _from_ Italy, but it was _sooooo _pretty) – Really, there was no time for romance.

Sweet Treats at Dorian's Books and Curiousities opened to a modest, but promising crowd, and she knew she'd made the right decision –

Especially since it's how she finally _finally_ met Sean – who was manicured but masculine, worldly, smart, drop dead gorgeous, and allergic to cats.

Sean had been one of her first customers, who loved her triple shot mocha cherry and soon was coming in every morning to order one. The sexual tension between the two of them was palpable – it was like a real scorcher of a romance novel that her Nana liked that is filled with sultry looks and throbbing bodies –

She's so nervous when he finally asks her out – scared of screwing everything up and being a total freak loser like she normally is on a first date –

They have dinner at a nice restaurant where she manages not to spill wine or belch or have be too picky about the way her food is prepared – He laughs at all her jokes, she doesn't mention any embarrassing stories about herself, and it really couldn't have been more perfect if she'd written their conversations out herself.

They close the date with long walk along the pier – and she's certain in that moment that her life couldn't be more perfect.

Except after the first month business slumped and Sean said he hadn't meant to get so attached to her just weeks shy of going to Australia for up to a _frickin' year_.

She couldn't do much about Sean – except agree that she felt they had something special (_it was so __**freaking**__ special that it really ought to have their own special with Barbara Walters_) and promise that she'd try to make it work despite being half a world away from him.

The shops – because she couldn't run her business without Dorian's Books and Curiousities surrounding it – had become her number one priority in the mean time. She didn't want to critique JD's business practices – she didn't think he'd take them kindly at this point; he was so stressed between classes and running the shop – so she tries to up her business instead, hoping that the increased traffic will boost JD's sales too. It was a help – but not quite enough to keep everything afloat.

"Elliot, I don't think this is a good idea –" JD mutters for the fifth time this morning (_not to mention three calls last night_) as they await the arrival of Ms. Sullivan with the final contract.

"You're going to make money without having to _do_ anything, how is this not a _great_ idea?"

"It's a _soap opera_, it's _bad_ television, and you want me to associate the shop my father spent his life building with it," JD grumbles – and really, she's had enough now. She grabs JD firmly by the upper arms forcing him to face her.

"We need the money, no more arguing. Besides, don't you know better than to judge a book by it's cover? It's not like we're turning the place into a marijuana pharmacy."

"Dad probably would've liked that," JD mutters, before sighing and nodding. "You're right – I hope."

"Of course I'm right," She says perkily, like heroines are supposed to, even as brain flashes up thousands of way it could go wrong.

This has to work. _It just has to._

The bell above the door rings out – and there is Ms. Sullivan standing in the doorway, looking like a model for female corporate sharks dressed in her brown leather skirt paired with a plum blazer.

They all move towards the seating area, and as they sit she sticks out her hand – because you've got to be confident and professional in these sorts of situations otherwise they'll take you to the cleaners –

"Nice to see you, Ms. Sullivan,"

Ms. Sullivan wrinkles her nose but firmly takes her hand.


	7. Chapter 7

She can't get away from those two hipsters fast enough – they're both so hopeful and sickeningly naïve – She was going to vomit the stench of their optimism was so strong

Not that she didn't work that to her advantage – eight hundred for a set location _per day_ was unheard of – she couldn't believe she'd really managed to get it so cheap – and she got catering thrown in at half the usual cost.

Listening to Ben (_and, she'll grudgingly admit Perry)_ when he insisted that this was the place for the new Dr. Jefferson storyline was one of the smartest things she'd ever done – beyond hiring her little cash cow writer.

The studio had been so short sighted wanting to keep Perry stuck as the medical fact checker (despite the fact that the man didn't even have a degree in biology)– not seeing the new perspective that he could bring to the table – something that could turn their run of the mill medical soap into something _different_.

Perry was not a romantic, but he did have a remarkable understanding of the soap opera genre and what the viewers wanted. What made him special was his ability to deliver what was expected with a twist that made them fan darlings.

She'd gotten caught up in the rush of it all – her victory, Perry's charm, the classic Jane Austen fantasy – smart and stubborn woman fights with equally smart and stubborn man, they loathe each other, then they work together on something and are forced to admit their attraction and they live happily ever after in their big manor house.

She bets Elizabeth would've beat Mr. Darcy to death if she'd been trapped with him in a small bungalow in the Hills. Really, Perry's lucky she just slept with Petey –

Okay, so maybe that was taking it a little too far. If she could do it over again she'd probably just hand Perry the divorce papers and _then_ sleep with Petey – letting Perry catch them in the act had been low. She had just felt – felt stuck in amber, Perry's expectations and needs – her own needs that she couldn't explain to him or maybe he just couldn't understand –

Normally they'd both be able to get away from one another for a few hours at work – except that they worked together and damned if Perry didn't take his job home with him – he took every cut and alteration of the script personally – and she'd have to be a moron to not notice how Jessica Jefferson suddenly had a story line where she was cheating _oh so fucking perfect_ Dr. Noah Jefferson with Noah's coworker Dr. Fleisher. She wonders, looking back on it, if he didn't subconsciously know that her eyes were straying from their marriage.

Their divorce had been nasty – the trouble with marrying soap opera writers is that they both a way with words and a sense of the dramatic. That wasn't to say that she hadn't got quite a few good shots about his masculinity, his ability to please her bed –

Never his skill as a writer – after all, he was her golden goose. A golden goose that might fly off to another show if she wasn't careful – which is why she hadn't objected when Perry introduced a story line where Petey's character was discovered to be a pedophile before killing himself by jumping in front of a train trying to escape from the police.

She didn't know what amused her more – the vindictive story line or Petey's whining and pleading for her to kill it. What did he think would happen, sleeping with the head writer's wife – that he'd become the lead? The show got an Emmy for that story line.

For awhile now, though, the scripts she's been getting have less and less – well she can only describe them as less 'Perry'. The scripts are still good – but the spark Perry was able to add was gone – they are exactly the sort of stories that she'd expect from a soap – not from _Nights of Our Lives_.

She's at a lost at what to do about it, however – Perry's heart just doesn't seem to be in the show any more. Ben had been certain that Perry just needed to get laid – and told her so repeatedly no matter how many times she told him that she _didn't want to know_ – shouldn't know because she'd divorced the man and legally didn't have to give a crap about what he did in his personal time any more –

Ben kept telling her just to piss her off, undoubtedly. Ben, whose last night on this earth was spent at some seedy bar trying to get her ex-husband some action.

She's doing her best to try and not resent Perry for that.

***///***///***

_To: _

_From: _

_RE: Assignments_

_Dear Class,_

_I have just been informed by the college that my lesson plan is 'insufficient'. My argument that what they knew about writing in general and creative writing in particular in the __**real world**__ instead of the fantasyland they live in was not heard._

_The methodology behind my first lesson plan was this: As a writer, if you are one of the very very very lucky talented few, you will be able to write what you choose, or be assigned something to write about – depending on what your eventual field is. However, since you are attending this university the likelihood of that happening to you is slim to none. _

_As writers, you must constantly have an evolving body of work ready for presentation at any moment to a potential customer. This portfolio should represent you as the writer that you are today._

_Since my current lesson plan of allowing you to spend time focusing on creating this body of work for yourselves was deemed insufficient, I will be demanding two pages out of your journal sent to me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Each day will be worth a maximum of ten points._

_I will expect your first two pages by midnight tonight._

***///***///***

JD groans loudly, cursing himself for not checking his email earlier in the morning – as it is he has six hours to write two pages, while supervising the transformation of his family shop into a television set.

Normally, writing two pages would come easy to him; he'd knock it out in a blink – especially with the freedom to write whatever he wanted to. With the new style he's adopted however, the words come so much slower – he's straining for each letter –

It's about quality, he reminds himself, not quantity. He could spew out mounds of crap but this new style was producing quality work – it was new, it was only natural that he would find it difficult to write with at first.

"What's up," Elliot chirps, setting up her serving area – large pitchers of water and coffee set out already as she delicately applies cheese spread to the tops of apple slices that are precisely centered on top of wheat crackers. She's been on cloud nine about this whole thing –

He still wasn't quite decided about whether or not it was such a good thing or not. Elliot was right though, he needed the money to keep the doors open – and if there was even the smallest chance that it would drive up some business he really did have to take it.

He had yet to read the script either – Ms. Sullivan's assistant had sourly informed him that he'd get the script when he got the script and not a moment sooner.

He sighs to himself, opening up a word document – to be honest he hasn't been keeping up on his journal – if he had been then he'd already have two pages worth of stuff to transcribe and send off –

Except the shop had consumed his attention again – she was a cruel mistress like that –

That, he decides, will be his inspiration –

He gets one sentence down before the bell above the door rings.

A young woman with her dark blonde hair in braided pigtails with a sour pucker to her lips.

"Mr. Dorian," She asks in a bored time, eyes briefly taking in the details of the shop. "I'm Denise, Ms. Sullivan's assistant."

_Really, never would've guessed._ He wonders if Ms. Sullivan hired her specifically for her dour attitude, or if the experience of working for the woman was just so embittering. It's pretty even odds, he figures.

"Hi, so you have the script," He asks, and she grunts, digging through her messenger bag before dropping thirty pages of script in front of him.

"They're going to be shooting a couple episodes here tonight. Ms. Sullivan sent me over to start organizing the set up. The crew will be along shortly to start moving stuff—"

"Moving stuff?"

"Yeah – there's too much crap in the way and we need to get the cameras in here – and start spiking—"

"Is that the script," Elliot squeals, bounding over –

Denise flinches back and glares at Elliot as if she's some sort of vicious creature.

He needs to get back to his assignment – but he needs to read the script – and make sure they don't trash the place –

Maybe he should just blow off the assignment tonight – except that Professor Cox didn't sound like the type to be forgiving – (_funny that they said 'sound' when he'd never heard the man speak – except 'the man didn't read like the type to be forgiving' didn't make much sense…_).

"Sure thing, Elliot, will you please show Denise here where the storage room is—"

Elliot is instantly chattering away with the much aggrieved looking Denise (_maybe she was just __**born**__ like that after all…_) as she leads her to the back of the shop and the hidden doorway behind one of the bookshelves --

He flips open the script, eager to read –

_EXT. SHOT: Dr. Jefferson is walking down the street. It is raining heavily and soaking him through to the bone. The wind gusts and blows his hat away. He walks past a storefront glowing dimly in the gloom and pauses. _

_SHOT: Dr. Jefferson standing before the glass storefront with a hand painted sign in the window, 'Dorian's Books and Curiousities'. Dr. Jefferson enters._

_INT. SHOT: A ragged appearing bookstore – somewhat chaotically organized, filled to the brim with books. There is an espresso stand in the corner. _

_NOAH:_

_HELLO? IS ANYBODY HERE?_

_Noah rings the bell on the counter top by the register – he glances about, searching for the owner._

Reading things in script format always gives him a headache.

The bell over the door rings again and three tough looking men in tight black shirts with '_Nights of Our Lives CREW_'. He'd giggle at the sight of them if they didn't look capable of bending him like a pretzel.

He needs to do his homework – and he doesn't know enough about this stupid show to even guess at who '_Dr. Jefferson_' is or if he's the type of clientele he'd want in Dorian's Books and Curiousities in the first place.

He spies Elliot coming out of the stock room – well, she wanted this, the least she can do is help him now – besides, she knew much more about the show than he did –

"Hey, Elliot," He says, snagging the script and coming around the counter towards her. She's already bee-lined back to her catering table, checking over her arrangements –

She slaps his hand when he tries to take a cracker and he can't help but pout just a little.

"Elliot," He asks under his voice, "Will you read the script for me? I've got homework and, well – you've got a better idea of what's going on in the show than I do…"

Elliot pulls the script out of his hand so fast his fingertips burn, instantly beginning to devour the writing –

She hasn't even turned past the first page when she lets out a squeal.

"Oh. My. _GOD_. JD! JD, we've hit the jackpot – we're not just in any storyline, we're in a _Dr. Jefferson_ storyline!"

"So?"

"SO! He's just one of the _main_ characters – he's a doctor at _Our Lady of Sacred Heart Hospital_, treating all sorts of patients – he's a bit of a rebel, bucking the rules to do what's best for his patients – oh and his wife _cheated_ on him, although I don't know why because I'd let him put glasses on my Nana's coffee table _without_ a coaster he's that good looking—"

The bell above the door rings again and in strides an attractive young blonde man with a trim muscular body, sparkling blue eyes – and a stunning white smile. The setting sunlight glows around him like a halo. He couldn't have made a more stunning entrance if he tried –

"You're early," Denise barks from across the room, helping one of the movers push the recliner to the far corner of the room.

"I just wanted to get a feel for the place," The man replies lightly, apparently unphased by Denise's rude tone. "Hey," the man says, offering JD's hand. "Nice place you got here. I'm Keith Dudemeister, I play—"

"Dr. Jefferson," Elliot bursts in, looking flushed and star struck as she gazes upon Keith like he's some sort of _angel_ or something.

"Yeah, you guys are fans of the show?"

He opens his mouth to speak but Elliot's heel comes crashing sharply down onto the arch of his foot and he's forced to choke back a scream instead.

"We're huge fans, absolutely love the show," Elliot insists, pushing JD aside. "Would you like me to give you a tour of the place?"

He can already tell he doesn't like this _Keith_ guy –


	8. Chapter 8

_Gary glared at the goodbye letter. _

"_This is how you're going to break it off? A letter," He snarled, the letter crumpling in his fist._

"_Yes," Denise said._

"_After all I've given you? I __**made**__**love**__ to you," Gary snarled, stepping closer to her. Denise's own slightly feminine scent was overwhelmed by the scent of sweat and fucking._

"_If that was making 'love', I don't want to see you making 'hate'," Denise sneered, making her pretty face ugly. Her true, ugly self. "Goodbye, Gary."_

_The door slams. He loved her still._

"Dear god," Perry tosses the paper aside, wanting to burn the damn thing – and the computer that had the misfortune to download it – if only it wouldn't set off the fire alarm.

He opens his mouth to speak, to completely eviscerate this piss poor writer who is just trying way too hard to be cool and detached – and the swell of silence hits his ears and realizes that there's no point to it. He can say whatever he wants, and no one will listen to him, because he's alone.

He should be used to that by now, really.

Perhaps he would've been better off to try and make the class situation work, that way he could crush the spirit of the moron who wrote this face to face.

He'd seen a few of this 'jdorian_at_' – he could look up the kid's name on his roster but it wasn't worth it – and he didn't know what frustrated him more: the utter lack of believable dialogue, or the way all they all seemed obsessed with how terrible relationships were.

They're the most overwrought, overworked _cliché_ pieces of crap he's read in a long while – jdorian is trying so hard to avoid 'romantic cliché' that he's mired himself in the a whole new cliché that seems to have swept johnmd76's generation where romance was terrible thing and people said 'fuck' a lot.

Perhaps he's been working in soaps too long – although no one had ever accused him of being a romantic – but all this _angst_ over how wretched love could be, when every story winds up with a tragic ending – it just seems so awful. Not just the writing style, which was definitely awful, but if they were right, if love really was more of a curse than a blessing –

Perhaps he's just turned into a maudlin drunk, he reflects as he pours himself another scotch – he's undoubtedly out of touch with the next generation – they aren't his target audience after all. He's certainly been shit on by love enough to understand the sentiment behind all their nihilistic dribbling.

It's just depressing – the world is depressing enough. He certainly didn't need some whiny twenty something to tell him how bad it is. Hell, he could school the snot nosed pricks on just how big a shit life could take on a person – in several different ways.

Apathetically he gives jdorian a 7/10 score. The grammar and spelling had been passable, and it wasn't worth the hassle of dealing with the complaints of the author trying to justify why their piece of crap deserved a higher score. He's already had to go through that twice last week, and he'd felt their scores of -3/10 was generous.

He'd hoped to find inspiration in other people being passionate about something without being paid for it –

Except it wasn't and he truly didn't know if he could blame it on the quality of the writing – although it was certainly a factor.

His heart's just not in the show anymore– not that it ever truly was – but it had been enjoyable at least if a little frivolous.

He sighs, glaring at the show script that's begging for his attention, at the four other student journals he's yet to read through – and then the window, where a patch of bright blue sky beckons him –

He hasn't been to the bookstore in awhile – hasn't been since Ben died. Ben had liked the shop – had told him how it'd be the perfect setting for a show – He'd written it in because it was Ben and he could never deny Ben anything – besides he'd owed the kid a favor for helping him that night –

He needs to stop letting Ben's specter hold him captive – can't let the man's ghost dog his every step.

He's got to get out of this apartment – out of his life –

He's gotta take the kid back his jacket anyway.

***///***///***

So far there _hasn't_ been an increase in foot traffic to the shop – something he'd totally rub in Elliot's face if it weren't for the fact that the shows apparently hadn't even started airing yet – she's already scheduled a viewing party at the shop, even printing up flyers to distribute around town and inviting members of the cast and crew.

Anyway, she's making her special cherry cupcakes for the event – there's no way he's screwing up getting in on those.

His email pings to let him know he's got a new email –Professor Cox gave him a 7/10 for his latest journal entries – and no commentary again.

He's not complaining (70% equals C equals passing), but the lack of commentary – even if it would be coming from some hack who's probably too busy writing the latest Paris Hilton movie to write any constructive criticism to his students.

He craves that 10/10 though – and he can't ever get there if he doesn't know what the man is docking him for. They're only a couple of assignments away from the final 'mystery' project, when their grades are going to matter. He needs to get this figured out before then.

He's about to fire off an email requesting feedback from Professor Cox (_emails as bullets? If it weren't for my spam blocker I'd be holier that Saint Swiss Cheese_) when his eyes are drawn to his storefront window –

The sunlight catches in red hair turning the tips of the curls blonde – for a moment he'd look quite at home in some art nouveau painting serving some pagan forest god – all bare chested and –

He pinches himself harshly as Perry enters the shop – now is not the time for fruitless crushes – he hasn't seen Perry in ages and he'd probably never see the man again if he knew that JD saw the man as anything other than a favorite customer.

Besides – Perry's face is weary, as weary as it was the night they first met, his eyes dull and listless -- he's rumpled and disheveled looking, his grooming not nearly as neat as it used to be. Stubble hazes his chin, the ginger-gray fuzz unnoticeable from a distance but starkly apparent up close. Fine lines of fatigue creep away from Perry's eyes and between his eyebrows.

It's the face of the grieving man – and he wonders if it has anything to do with the man who _isn't_ here.

"Hey, Perry," He says, his voice coming out chipper in spite of the somber cloud that follows Perry. Normally he'd be proud of his ability to prevent anything from raining on his parade, but the cheerful tone rings sourly in the air. "I haven't seen you around in awhile."

"…been busy," Perry mutters non-committally, eyes drifting to the side for a moment before focusing back on him.

"You're walking on two legs again, that's got to be nice—" He says when the silence stretches too long while Perry stands in the middle of the room, looking about the shop listlessly.

"Yeah," That gets a watery half-smile out of Perry, and his heart warms.

"Well, if you need anything, just shout."

He does his best not to follow Perry's path around the shop out of the corner of his eyes (_He's avoiding the travel section, something __**definitely**__ happened between him and Ben_). He forces himself to write the email to Professor Cox, politely asking for the man's honest criticism (_hoping the guy won't wind up being too much of a bastard about it_,_ he seemed like the bastard type_).

How will he ever improve – ever get anything published – if he's left blind without the guiding light of critique to guide him – Maybe, he thinks as he gives into the urge to press his palm to his forehead, he'll improve if he stops thinking in purple prose. That'd probably be an excellent start. Genius in fact.

Why was he paying for these graduate courses where he got no feedback when he could be his own harshest critic? He could've saved the shop a couple times over with all the tuition he'd spent.

"Someone steal your lollypop, Janey?"

The question startles him out of his gloomy thoughts and he forces himself to hit send, printing out a copy of the email for his own records.

Perry is looking at him with some of his old mischief glinting in his eye as he makes his way towards him, two books under one arm along with a wadded up piece of fabric. The man's gait is still stiff with a slight limp – couldn't recover from knee surgery over night after all.

"No, just my jerk professor. He doesn't give us any feedback, just grades – which is great unless you want to _grow_ as a writer," He finds himself grumbling, taking the books (_a Thai cookbook and a dog eared copy of '__Things Fall Apart__'_) and totaling up his bill.

He almost misses the startled look Perry gives him for a split second.

"You're a writer?"

"I want to be," He gestures around him, "Hard not to want to be one when you grew up in a bookstore."

"I imagine," Perry agrees quietly.

"That's going to be $10.25 total."

He watches as Perry's nimble fingers quickly pull eleven dollars out of his wallet, then as they catch the change in return tipping the silvery coins into the donation jar for pediatric cancer.

"Been meaning to give you this," Perry says as he takes the sack, dropping the bundle of fabric onto the counter.

It takes JD a second to realize it's his father's coat – and he's torn between guilt at every possibly forgetting about his father and the fact that the sight of the coat no longer is painful. He strokes the front of the coat with one hand, his fingers only vaguely remembering the texture now.

"Thanks," the words come out of his mouth hoarsely. "It's my dad's."

"Oh – guess he's been missing it, tell him I'm sorry for keeping it."

"He – wouldn't mind. He would've been glad to be a help," JD says, and one look into Perry's eyes and he knows that Perry understands what _he's_ not saying.

Their eyes are locked in a queer sort of moment where everything is possible but nothing is happening. His body throbs to move forward as his tongue itches to ask Perry what happened to Ben and hoping that Ben broke it off between them and went off to Greece or something.

"JD," Elliot squeals, jarring both JD and Perry violently; the sound of her heels doing the cha-cha stomping it to little pieces. "He asked me out! _Keith_ asked to be my date to the viewing party!"

"You have a boyfriend."

"Sean's in Australia… and maybe it's silly to think this long distance thing could work."

"You're the hostess, you can't have a date, I'm your date I'm the host!"

"Who are you, Emily Post? You should get a date of your own," Elliot says, giving a meaningful look to Perry and a long slow wink.

He'd kill her right here and now if it weren't for the fact he'd have to kill Perry for being a witness.

He turns back to Perry, who looks highly amused by the whole situation – although whether or not he's figured out (_please god be merciful and say that he hasn't_) that Elliot's been dreaming of his and Perry's wedding since Perry first came to the shop is unknown.

"Do you want to come – not as my date but – y'know as my 'bro', supporting me in this foolish endeavor that may or may not save my family bookstore?"

Perry looks ready to say no, and he feels stupid for asking – Chocolate Bear has told him hundreds of times that he's just not genetically capable of using the word 'bro' in straight conversation and why does he insist on using it again and again?

"Sure, why not," Perry replies, taking one of the fliers, folding it and placing it in his pocket. "Watching her inevitable trainwreck should be worth the price of admission."

"It's free."

"Even better."

"I'll see you at seven then!"

Perry nods and heads out the door –

***///***///***

He's such an idiot. How many 'Dorian's did he possibly think there were in the world? Especially 'J. Dorian's living in this city, attending this crappy university? He should've picked up on it sooner – way sooner.

What's even more boggling is that kid and the writing deh-heh-hefinitely didn't match. The kid's a plucky optimist that he'd normally want to choke the snot out of – the writing's that of an angsty seventeen year old.

He shouldn't have agreed to come to the party – that's only asking for trouble –he'll just call the day before and say he's gotten sick or something.

Except the kid hasn't put it together either he's his teacher, and hell, he'd gotten the kid on the show, he deserved some sort of reward –

Beat staying in again on Friday night.


End file.
